“Weed and Liquor, Never Sicker” by Emeka Patrick
There was a reason I only smoked weed occasionally after college—and it wasn’t just due to that one Hash Bash where I smoked too much and momentarily passed out . . .
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“The Accoutrements of Rest” by Del Wrennen
The plain was measureless. Aside from offering the occasional visual cue in the form of a tarweed shrub or boulder, it held no real sense of distance or direction. Further, though Jared felt movement—the rhythmic plodding of his horse sent soft vibrations up through the saddle horn—there seemed a lack of forward inertia. The earth acted as if on a great axle that was slowly spinning in counterbalance to the horse’s hooves. As hooves punched into parched earth, dust gathered around the mount’s hindquarters, and from a distance it appeared as if the animal trod upon a low-flying cloud: the world’s first wingless Pegasus—in flight, yet bound by oppressive heat to the ranks of the lower atmosphere . . .
“No Smoking” by Sara Dobie Bauer
She wondered what his skin felt like. There was little of it to see, wrapped in all black like a Bedouin woman in the desert . . .
“Demon in the Mirror” by Christophorus Cedenus
I spend most of my time synthesizing chemicals and looking out the door to see if anyone is coming. I am naturally paranoid . . .
“The Friendly Skies” by Linda Lenhoff
I was fine when I got on the road that morning—a little nervous, but I’d taken two Ativans. The pills were supposed to be strong enough to get me on the plane and all the way across the Midwest to LA. Not like last time . . .
“Acid on the Fourth of July” by Amber Drea
For our first date, we decided to drop acid on the Fourth of July, 1998 . . .
“Killing Time” by Kirsten Rae Simonsen
We arrived around three a.m. and banged on the door, which swung open. The tiny white apartment was filled with pasty-faced, sweating people, hopping and hollering to a harrowing type of Dutch hardcore techno that thumped angrily through the speakers . . .
“Dropping Like Flies” by Brian Lance
Flies pepper the window of my Fort Benning barracks room. I stun them with pine-scented Glade. With each spray they drop—well, like flies . . .